


Captain Sweden, The British Government, and Bolivia, Consulting Detective

by Kameo (Brainygiirl), PsychGirl (snycock)



Series: The Game Is Now [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Always1895 Johnlock Fic Prompt Challenge, BDSM, Blink and you'll miss it, Bondage, Daddy Kink, Established Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Humor, Ice Play, M/M, Mycroft IS the British Government, Nipple Play, Oral Sex, Romance, Teasing, prompt: johnlock on holiday, the game is now
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-28
Updated: 2018-07-28
Packaged: 2019-06-17 21:42:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,339
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15470700
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Brainygiirl/pseuds/Kameo, https://archiveofourown.org/users/snycock/pseuds/PsychGirl
Summary: What was Sherlock REALLY doing during that intercepted audio clip?





	Captain Sweden, The British Government, and Bolivia, Consulting Detective

**Author's Note:**

> Note: This fic was inspired by the promotional materials for The Game Is Now, a Sherlock-themed escape room in London. 
> 
> You can find the announcement [here](https://www.movienco.co.uk/trailers/the-game-is-on-message-gatiss-moffat/)  
> and the “intercepted audio clip” [here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pqi6XIs1AHs)
> 
>  
> 
> Notes: Many thanks to GizmoTrinket for the beta. And a huge thanks to my co-writer, KameoDouglas, for generally being awesome, writing great smut, and being willing to go along with my weird plot ideas!
> 
> Kameo here: Regardless of my feelings about Moftiss, the season whose number must not be named, or this experience-event or whatever it is that’s being promoted, it was really sweet to hear Ben and Mark in character again. Almost all of the dialogue has been included and worked into the plot.
> 
> And once again, working with Snycock is a privilege. She totally rescued this thing plot-wise and makes me a better writer with every word she writes.
> 
> Stay tuned, there’ll be more to come in this series...

It had been three weeks since their last contact from Mycroft, which could only mean trouble, Sherlock mused. When John’s mobile rang, shrill in the quiet, John shot him a look, then picked it up and said, “Sweden here.” He listened for a moment, then put it on mute and said to Sherlock, “It’s Britain. Do you want to talk to him?”

Sherlock snorted. “Not even under ideal conditions.”

John spoke into the mobile again. “Bolivia is unavailable. He’s…tied up.”

He was, quite literally, tied up. So far, just his wrists, with beautiful silk scarves that would leave beautiful pink marks on his pale skin. He tugged experimentally against his restraints. John had done a good job; he couldn’t move his wrists more than a quarter-inch. His legs were making up for it though, his feet braced against the mattress, his heels sliding up and down sporadically.

There must have been a reply, because John snapped, “Then why are you calling Sweden? You want to speak to Bolivia, call Bolivia!”

Sherlock gestured impatiently at the phone with his head. John exhaled heavily. “I don’t appreciate this interruption,” he muttered as he pressed the button for speakerphone. “I didn’t catch that, Britain, what did you say?”

“I said, don’t be stupid. Or more stupid than absolutely necessary. If he would pick up the phone, I would call him!” Mycroft’s voice sounded tinny and distant.

“Well, supposedly, he’s a grown up,” John snapped, eyeing Sherlock. “If he doesn’t pick up, it means he can’t talk.” He poked Sherlock in the ribs. “I’m not his PA. Or his daddy.”

Sherlock stared back at him, eyes glazing over. Dreamily, he murmured, “Daddy. Daddy?”

John flushed and licked his lips, then shook his head fiercely and said, “No, we are not playing that now.”

“Is that him?” Mycroft exclaimed. “That’s him, isn’t it? Put him on the phone.”

Running a hand through his hair, John sighed and put the mobile down on the bed. He turned his back and went into the bathroom. “It’s your own fault, go on and talk to him.”

“Finally,” Mycroft growled. “Bolivia, this is Britain. I take it you’re still abroad on holiday?”

“Oh come on, you know the answer to that.”

John came out of the bathroom, running two long silk scarves through his hands, and looked at Sherlock with a calculating gaze. Sherlock’s mouth went dry. 

“Any interesting sights?”

John made a slipknot, looped the end of the scarf around Sherlock’s ankle, then fastened the other end to the bed frame and pulled it tight. Sherlock suppressed a whimper as John walked around to the other side of the bed, hands already busy forming a loop in the last scarf.

“Taken any good photographs?” Sherlock thought he could hear annoyance in Mycroft’s voice.

Grinning at Sherlock from under his eyelashes, John tightened the last scarf, pinning Sherlock to the bed quite effectively. He tugged experimentally but found that John had left him little slack. A flush traveled up his chest. 

_Mmmm, gorgeous_ , John mouthed silently, and climbed up onto the bed.

“Sent any postcards?” The irritation was much clearer now.

Sherlock sucked in a breath and attempted to answer his brother. “No, it’s been… it’s been raining, and… we, we haven’t got any stamps, and….” 

John was being terribly distracting, idly tracing circles around Sherlock’s left nipple, then lightly flicking the right one. Sherlock couldn’t help the muted whimper that escaped him. 

Mycroft asked uncertainly, “Are you still there? Bolivia?”

He glared at John, who put on his best ‘What did I do?’ face. “Yes, I’m here,” he snapped, his irritation with his brother rising more quickly than usual. “And this is rather an absurd line of questioning, given that you’re constantly tracking our location, don’t you think? Even on the outskirts of nowhere.” 

Mycroft heaved an impatient sigh. “Bolivia, this is not a secure line! And do you know how difficult it is to get you two out of the country nowadays? With your picture all over the newspapers? You may have to cut your hair! And you definitely have to do something about that blasted blog - it’s attracting too much attention!”

John snatched the phone up and yelled into it. “Oi!” 

Sherlock jerked his chin and John replaced the phone on the bed next to Sherlock’s head. In a harsh whisper, Sherlock said, “You’re not to say a single word against Jo- against Sweden’s blog! It’s saved lives, very close to home, as it were, and it made an actual success out of certain incorrigibles. In the eyes of real people!”

“Yes, yes, apologies,” Mycroft responded, with not nearly enough remorse in his voice for Sherlock’s liking. “It’s just made it damn near impossible to keep you out of the sights of people who’d like to have you removed - permanently!”

This time John glared and Sherlock put on the innocent expression, which did not save his left nipple from a vindictive pinch. “Ow!”

“What was that? Is everything all right?” Mycroft asked in a slightly nervous voice.

John cut in, “Fine. It’s all fine. Can we move this along? We’re very busy enjoying our holiday.” He rolled his eyes. “In this godforsaken hellhole. I’d rather be in Afghanistan. Or Kazakhstan, to be honest.” Sherlock growled at him. Ignoring him, John stroked his fingers down the center of Sherlock’s chest, over his stomach, and down the faint line of fine dark hair to the base of his cock, which was flushed pink and hardening, rising to meet John’s hand. 

There was a moment of silence, during which Sherlock deduced that Mycroft might be beginning to realize what he and John were doing. The thought of the expression that that was putting on Mycroft’s face made him smile.

“Yes, yes. To the point, then,” Mycroft said quickly. “Certain cells of the network have gone rather…quiet. They’re not with you by any chance?”

“No. I have not been hiding them. This is not an international game of sardines.” He was quickly reaching the end of his patience with his brother. 

“Concerning…I don’t suppose you fancy returning?”

“No. Not really. Wasn’t the point of all this to neutralize the threats against us?” 

John picked up the phone again. “You’ve got us hopping around the hemispheres, sweeping up the lost pieces of your jigsaw puzzle - we’ve got our own problems here. We haven’t even begun to see any patterns, let alone the whole picture. What would be the point of returning?” He tossed the phone back onto the bed.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and John straddled his hips, moving down his body slowly, kissing the line he’d drawn with his fingertips. 

Mycroft carried on, “No. Thought not. I thought not. Well, then, you’ve driven me to it. We are simply short of minds. No amount of quiet recruitment can compensate for our sheer dearth of numbers. We shall have to recruit…publicly.”

Sherlock snapped his fingers twice, the safe signal he used to pause John, who complied immediately. Perplexed and slightly horrified, Sherlock stuttered out, “Recruit… real people?”

“Real people.” 

“You know you can’t trust them, they’re into all sorts of …strange things. High-protein diets. Posting photographs of food. Voting.”

“Yes, but at least they’re replaceable.”

“There’s so many of them!”

“More and more every day. It’s horrifying. You can’t stop them spawning. Believe me, we’ve tried.”

“Well, good luck. With them. Obviously. Although, you might have better luck with some irregular people. My irregular people. I can give you a few numbers.”

“Appreciated,” Mycroft drawled in a tone that clearly said it was anything but. “Things have been ominously quiet here. There have been no calls for any kind of, shall we say, cutlery work and even my boldest offers of assistance have gone unanswered.”

Sherlock snorted in derision. “It’s the same here. We need something to do. A new adventure, a proper one, involving... the people you’d expect to be involved. I may die of boredom before anyone tries to kill me. Holiday, my arse. ”

John frowned up at him from where he was lying between his legs and reached up and tweaked his nipple hard. Sherlock hissed, the mingled pain and pleasure making his cock throb.

“It’s the least you can do,” he told Mycroft, once he found his voice. “We’re trying to clean up your messes, for god’s sake.”

John smiled. “I like cleaning up _your_ messes,” he murmured, his breath warm and teasing on Sherlock’s erection.

“Sweden has been hanging around the usual locations,” he continued, his voice a bit unsteady, “offering his… decorative cutlery, at rock bottom prices and there hasn’t even been a nibble. I’m wondering if we wouldn’t have more luck with Kazakhstan. The country, not—never mind; you know.

“Do you remember when I mentioned how difficult it was getting you out of the country? And how many times must I tell you, Bolivia, this is Not. A. Secure. Line.”

The reminder stung and Sherlock searched for an appropriate rejoinder. “What’s that noise? Are you eating something? Are you eating cake? My very life might be at stake just speaking to you and you’re eating cake?”

Mycroft sounded defensive. “I’ll have you know I’m drinking a high-protein yoghurt. I haven’t had time to eat a proper meal in days.”

Sherlock snorted, then continued complaining. “Even under the circumstances, you could have put us up in better accommodations. There isn’t even any room service here!”

“We don’t need room service.” John murmured, as he stroked his hands lightly over Sherlock’s thighs. 

“It would be nice to at least be able to get something to drink.”

John gave him a wicked grin. “We have an ice bucket.” He fished an ice cube out of the bucket on one of the nightstands. “And it’s full of ice.”

Sherlock shivered. “Must go. Sweden sends its regards.”

John snorted and dragged a finger lightly up the side of Sherlock’s cock. He tried to squirm himself closer to John’s hand, but the silk scarves left him no slack. 

“It does?”

“No, not really. Britain, Sweden and Bolivia are out,” he husked. 

Still grinning, John thumbed the phone off with one hand and with the other, slid the ice cube up Sherlock’s chest to his collarbone. Sherlock gasped, twisting against his bonds involuntarily, his heels scrabbling on the bedsheets. 

“So… Bolivia, is it?” John murmured, as he slid the ice in a circle around Sherlock’s nipple. “I hear it’s a stunningly beautiful country. Wonderful… peaks. Chilly. Irresistible, though. ”

Sherlock opened his mouth, but his answer was precluded by a gasp when John bit at the other nipple, then immediately soothed it with the same ice cube. Sherlock felt goosebumps rise on his skin, watched John chase them with the flat of his tongue, naked enjoyment on his face. “Oh, you’ve no idea how pretty you are,” he murmured. 

Sherlock’s nipples were aching and he could tell that John was taking a personal interest in monitoring their swelling and shrinking. “Let’s conduct a little experiment. Ice on one side, mouth on the other.”

Sherlock watched John set his watch for five minutes, and then apply ice to one nipple while lapping and pinching the other. “Of course,” he said, looking up at Sherlock with a wicked grin, “for the testing to be reliable, I’ll have to replicate the conditions on each side.” 

He gasped, squirming against his bonds. A moan escaped his lips. “Please, John,” he whinged.

His begging might have had no effect on the cold, hard, scientific mind of Doctor Watson, but Sherlock could tell that it was having the desired effect on John’s cock. When the timer rang John groaned and adjusted himself in his pants, then put his hand to his forehead and, reverting back to his scientist persona, dramatically bemoaned the fact that the results could not be considered valid due to the interference of previous stimulation. 

“Sorry, we’ll just have to wait for them to return to baseline, Sherlock. What shall we do while we wait?” He narrowed his eyes at him and it sent shivers down Sherlock’s spine. John put the ice bucket back on the nightstand and settled on his knees between Sherlock’s legs. “Any ideas?”

Sherlock took several breaths that swelled his chest, tempting John with the view of one red, engorged nipple and one pink, tight nub. True to form, John couldn’t resist touching them again, and he let his torso drag up along the length of Sherlock’s cock. That initiated some frantic grinding from Sherlock, but once John’s fingertips finished swishing over and around the very sensitive bumps he shifted back and Sherlock groaned in frustration. 

John put both of his hands on Sherlock’s thighs and rubbed his thumbs back and forth, not quite reaching his bollocks. Sherlock bit his lip and tried to stay still and quiet, but his pelvis had a mind of its own and mindlessly pursued contact that was out of reach. His composure shattered, he began to beg. “Please, John. Please.” 

“Hmm. What?”

“Touch me. Please.”

With all the patience of a trained soldier, John said, “Alright. Where?”

Sherlock groaned. He hated it when John put on his inquisitor persona like this. It was torture trying to coordinate his brain and mouth to answer questions, when all he wanted to do was surrender to the sensations.

“My...my cock.”

“Ahh. But there are so many options. How exactly?”

Sherlock shouted, “I don’t care--” but when John frowned at him, he lowered his voice. “However would make you happy, John.”

“Uh-huh. Well, let’s see. I could...” He made a ring of his thumb and forefinger and slid it over the head of his cock and gave a little twist. When Sherlock rose up to meet him, John pulled his hand away. Sherlock clenched his hands into fists and grunted in frustration.

“Or I could…” He shuffled forward and took his erection and Sherlock’s in one sturdy fist and allowed them to rub against each other. 

Sherlock moaned from somewhere much deeper in his chest. He managed to rasp out, “Yes, yes, yes.”

John sat back with a serious frown. “You say that now, but let’s not forget one of my favorites...” He bent at the waist and took the whole pink head into his mouth, engulfing Sherlock in soft, wet, heat.

His voice several octaves higher now, Sherlock whimpered, “That, that’s it. Oh, please, please, John, if you love me, if you’ve ever loved me, please, like that, just like that.” 

John popped off and said with a smile that Sherlock could only hear, “There, you see? That’s much more specific. Now I know exactly what you want.” He took Sherlock back into his mouth and dragged his tongue up the frenulum before devoting his entire focus to getting as much of him as far down his throat as he could. And when he reached bottom, he flattened his tongue for the ride back to the top. 

Unwilling to interrupt John’s rhythm and unable to move anything else, Sherlock tossed his head back and forth on the pillow and emitted a steady high-pitched drone. Most people would have found it annoying, but from prior experience Sherlock knew that John found it positively musical. It warmed his heart and motivated him to more strenuous efforts, which was exactly what Sherlock wanted. 

John abandoned finesse in favor of driving Sherlock to an even higher frequency with his speed and pressure. He hummed in counterpoint and the sudden vibration around Sherlock’s cock was enough to set him spilling into John’s brilliant mouth. John hollowed his cheeks and sucked every drop out of him, until Sherlock started to twitch at the oversensitivity. He licked the last drop from Sherlock’s slit before quickly loosening the bindings holding him hostage, massaging wrists and ankles and rotating joints. 

John’s voice was breathless and trembling. “Talk to me, Sherlock, are you good?”

“Hmmmm.”

“Nope, not good enough.” He felt a gentle series of taps on his cheek. “Words. I need words, Sherlock. Are you good? You feel alright?”

From a long way away, Sherlock said, “Good, John, feels good.”

John stripped himself with astonishing efficiency, then gripping his own cock in his fist. Sherlock heard John grunt and knew he was close, so close to his own release. “Good, good boy, stay with me. Does anything hurt? Sherlock, does anything hurt?” He gripped Sherlock’s curls and jostled his head a little. “Does anything hurt, Sherlock?”

Sherlock mumbled, “Everything feels good, John. So good.”

“Good, that’s really good, now one more thing, I want to come on you, Sherlock, want to see my come all over you, you beautiful thing, you, is that ok? And then I’ll lick it all up, yeah? And then I’ll kiss you so you can taste it too, is that all right? Can I, Sherlock, can I do that?”

Sherlock shuddered at the deliciously filthy thought and his words left him again. He moaned.

John choked back a laugh. “Sherlock! Yes or no? I can’t hold off much longer!”

Cranky now, Sherlock snapped at him. “Yes, please, hurry up already.”

“Good, now open your eyes and watch, watch what you do to me, how hot you are, how sexy you are.”

Sherlock whimpered and closed his eyes, embarrassed that John would use those words to describe him, but John wouldn’t let him hide. “Watch, watch…”

Eyes locked on each other, John made a lovely mess all over Sherlock’s belly and then kept his word about the rest of his promises. When he set him loose, John collapsed alongside and Sherlock curled up tight around him. John’s breath tickled Sherlock’s ear when he asked, “Maybe not such a terrible holiday after all?”

“Not at all. I believe I’ll have very fond memories of wherever it is we are right now.” 

They giggled until Sherlock realized that John had missed a few spots. He got up, slipped on his dressing gown and went for a flannel to clean up the stickiness. 

There was a sharp knock on the door. Sherlock looked over at John, eyebrows raised in alarm. “Are you…?”

“No,” John said, his expression grim. 

They slid off the bed quickly; Sherlock went to the door while John pulled his SIG Sauer out of his duffle and took up a stance next to the window that enabled him to cover the room. “Where’s your…”

Sherlock reached into the pocket of his dressing gown and pulled out his Browning L9A1.

John whispered, “It’s a dangerous habit to finger loaded firearms in the pocket of one’s dressing-gown, Sherlock. We’ve discussed this." Muttering to himself, he continued, "Pointless. Why do I bother? Less frontal development than I should have expected." 

Sherlock rolled his eyes and looked through the peephole in the door. All the tension drained out of him when he saw who was standing there. “Oh, it’s _you_ ,” he said. He slid the chain off, shot back the deadbolt, and opened the door. 

Irene Adler sauntered in, dressed in a backless red sheath dress with matching purse and pumps. She had an ermine stole draped over one shoulder. 

John exhaled and lowered the SIG to his side with a look at Sherlock. “To what do we owe the honor of this visit? Is there a purpose?” he grumbled.

“Being very intelligent people you may be able to deduce what it is,” she said. She looked both of them up and down, smiling when John, still naked, stepped behind Sherlock. Then she opened her purse, pulled out a mobile and pushed a single button. “Kazakhstan here. They’re fine, both of them.” She gave John a wink. “Exquisite, actually.”

“Oh, now you’re reporting directly to Britain?” Sherlock said. “What does he have on you?”

“Yes, very intimate,” Irene said, ignoring Sherlock. “Yes, I do think they need my help. I’ll be back in touch tomorrow.” She thumbed the phone off and slid it back into her purse. “Well, boys, it seems you’ve got yourselves in a bit of a pickle.”


End file.
